


Violet Hour

by Argyle



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-22
Updated: 2004-11-22
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Byron and Polidori set out from England and embark upon exile.





	Violet Hour

Even as the gale strengthened its hold on the Channel and dusk was bound by night, the horizon continued to bring forth a lightness of spirit, an unbridled, quietly cruel abandon that glinted across the mounting crests of the water. The air held some washed whisper of promise, a sound that was audible to only the most careful of observers, nearly lost against the quivering creaks of the mast and Polidori’s grumbled oaths as he huddled into the woolen folds of his cloak.

“Insufferable,” he growled, dragging a hand through the damp curls of his hair. The wind tugged upon the lace that hung in a knot about his neck, restlessly scattering the cool sea spray across his face as frost collected against his lashes, lightly stinging his cheeks.

The ship pitched forward and Polidori started as the sails sounded in a crisp report above him. He suddenly leaned forward, gripping the cold, weathered rail, and was sick. A violent shudder passed through his frame as he coughed and pulled a finely pressed handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, moving it smoothly over his mouth and across his brow. He was then still for a number of minutes, steadying the heaving motion of his breath with a hand held firmly against his chest, and he closed his eyes in hope of halting the sharp spinning of his head; abruptly, he wondered whether it was too late to return to England.

After a second lengthy pause, Polidori squared his shoulders, hoisting himself against the rail and forcing his eyes open once more. The tempest had waned for the moment, though he found little consolation in this fact as he felt his stomach churn in time with the blackened depths below. He became vaguely aware of movement to his side, and a figure held delicately between shadow and light, at once radiating with the appearance of heightened warmth.

It was Byron, humming with husky certainty as he sipped from a halfway-empty bottle of wine, apparently unperturbed by the onset of the storm. His hair blew back from his brow, softly tousling, and his eyes were alight with twined threads of exhilaration and veiled sorrow as he looked to the fading line of the shore.

“My lord,” Polidori offered, unevenly shifting his footing against the deck. His tongue darted across his lips and he trembled almost imperceptibly, tasting the bitter strains of brine and pitch that hung heavily in the air.

“Good evening, doctor,” Byron said, standing beside him. “Are you well?”

With a deep breath, Polidori suppressed a second wave of nausea as the ship rolled forward and suddenly dipped into a trough. Grimacing, he again wiped the fine tip of his handkerchief across his lips, at last turning to meet Byron’s eye. “Exceedingly well,” he said, tugging upon his cuffs with a practiced, theatrically casual attention, and quickly clasped the rail as they bounded over another great peak.

Byron nodded, watching Polidori with idle curiosity, and said simply, “Of course.”

“Oh,” Polidori continued quietly, struck by the glint in Byron’s eye. He pulled a small folio from his jacket pocket, his fingertips trembling slightly as he held it out. The finely scrawled ink gleamed against the creased parchment, caught by the gloom that crossed Polidori’s careful measurements and sweeping short-hand diagrams. He cleared this throat, meeting Byron’s gaze. “Here are the initial notes that you requested. I’ve not yet completed the entire analysis, though I hope to do so by Tuesday week.” Their hands touched as Byron reached forward to take it, and with a smirk, Polidori hastened to add, “Your dreams are most intriguing, my lord.”

“Yes, thank you, doctor,” Byron sighed distractedly as he pushed the folio into his jacket, not bothering to grace it with a second glance. A shadow seemed to cross his face, though it vanished with the gentle parting of his lips. “That’s quite all right.”

Polidori stifled a cough with the back of his hand, smiling slowly as it passed. “The potential for insight is very great, I assure you.”

Arching a brow, Byron seemed to consider his words before answering, “Perhaps.” He dashed the back of his hand across his brow before taking a swift drink of wine, his chest heaving with breath. With an eye held to the blackened waters, he shifted his balance and tugged upon the bowed silk at his throat. “We’ll have landfall by dawn, provided that the weather does not worsen. I’ve arranged for rooms to be readied there, though we really ought to set out again before long,” he said offhandedly, watching Polidori’s face. “There’s little sense in delaying our travels when they’ve not yet begun.” Byron then chuckled as he added, “I am eager to see Waterloo.”

“Yes, of course.” Polidori cleared his throat, looking away. His knuckles grew white as he clenched his hands against the rail.

“Do come inside, doctor,” Byron drawled at length, continuing to smile. With a darting glance to the bottle’s label, he finished the last of the wine in a long, breathless gulp, his head thrown back as the first fractured strains of moonlight danced through the soft curls of his hair, pooling in the pale hollow of his neck. He laughed, breaking away from Polidori’s eye before tossing the empty bottle into the water where it disappeared without a sound. “You won’t be worth very much to me if you’re ill, and I can see that you’ve already caught a chill just by standing out here in the open air.”

“Nonsense,” Polidori scoffed, feeling his cheeks flush lightly. He raised his chin, suddenly feeling equivocal and elusive, and narrowed his eyes as he continued, “I’m quite warm.”

Byron shrugged with a familiarly brusque nonchalance and pulled his cloak about his shoulders. “As you like,” he said, turning away. Polidori watched him as he crossed the deck, poised and proud, though after a moment, Byron paused and called over his shoulder with unexpected empathy, “I always prefer to dine in my own cabin, though you may join me as it suits you.”

Polidori nodded, his gaze trailing after Byron. He hesitated, softly knitting his brow and allowing his lips to stretch into a taut line. “Thank you,” he said with a quiet curtness, though Byron was gone, his footsteps sounding lightly and dissipating. The lingering traces of his outward vitality hung momentarily by Polidori’s side before dispelling upon the back of the wind.

Turning towards the side of the ship, Polidori leaned heavily forward and allowed his gaze to settle to the waves. Again, they seemed to be tremendous, towering up and flowing with the untapped strength of a darkness that had unraveled itself from the pull of the fine, violet light that fell through the woven layers of high fog. He watched the white cliffs as they rose, reflecting and fading from the horizon, and were gone.


End file.
